


Diabolus in Musica

by nociception



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Gen, Innistrad, Maybe Sorin/Tibalt if you squint real hard, Seasonal fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nociception/pseuds/nociception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a certain combination of notes called the "devil's music", a discordant sound of evil that could summon the devil.</p><p>Sorin Markov contemplates a time when he was once human and his musical pastimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diabolus in Musica

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d. All mistakes in the English language are mine. This was initially written during the throes of my madness while writing my dissertation and finished on a cold December night when I couldn’t sleep. Apparently I was obsessed with Sorin Markov and grand stately organs in a sitting, which was the inspiration for this.

When winter descends upon Innistrad, the plane becomes more desolate and more unforgiving. The werewolves find themselves descending into periods of hibernation rather than restlessly gambolling in the moonlight. The vampires donned their furs, more as a fashion statement than for any protection against the biting cold. The undead cared not for the change in season, but their creators did - Nephalia’s necromancers always had a problem with making frostbite resistant bodies. The humans kept indoors, ventured only when they had to and prayed that their autumnal harvests would last them through the winter. 

With the days so short and the nights so long, the humans, more than any other race on Innistrad, developed a series of traditions to keep their sanity about them. It started simple, a small meal at the winter solstice shared amongst those who were lucky enough to make it to the town hall. As event became tradition, the meals and feasting became more elaborate and preparations for the feast began even before the leaves changed their colour.

Entertainment was an important aspect of these celebrations. The first celebration of the solstice brought with it a brawl over a spilled tankard. To defuse the situation, the head of the celebration instead made the two drunkards sing in a bard-like manner and whoever had entertained the crowd the most would be the victor. So from hereon, the humans integrated song and dance into their winter solstice - eventually adding instruments. Plucked, hammered, bowed, blown - all manner of instruments were brought into these winter celebrations. Even in famine, the humans would bring themselves together - thankful for their continued survival with what meagre offerings they could bring for each other.

The nobles of Innistrad had their own celebrations but it was more of a show of wealth and power - that their fields had prospered and they had excess of everything during the winter. Music was also a part of those. The House of Markov was no different. 

Every noble child had to have a number of pursuits. Sorin was skilled at sword fighting, but he was tasked to learn an instrument. He always had a soft spot for the music. He had learned to play as a youth, the grand organ that was in the ballroom of Markov Manor. His teacher was a prim woman from the lower noble families. Sorin could barely remember her face, but he could remember the way her slender fingers hovered over certain keys and told him to imitate her until he became familiar with the feel of it. Soon he graduated to making noises on the organ, which initially brought the ire of his grandfather who complained it was disturbing his work. 

But Sorin got better. The noises became more melodic and his fingers glided over the keys. Simple melodies at first. As he grew older, he kept at it - the dexterity he gained from favouring a swift sword style translated into a more diverse organ playing. Soon Sorin could commit full pieces to memory, playing without needing the sheet music. He had memories of being cajoled to play one of his pieces at the next ball, because how impressive it would be, to have the heir be able to entertain his guests. It would make a great impression.

Shilgengar ruined those plans, of course. Sorin was not to attend that ball as he felt the pull of the blind eternities upon him when his grandfather turned on him in his alchemic lunacy. Here he was, in a distant plane that was not Innistrad craving blood and flesh.

Memories of when he was human did not come to Sorin often. He had lived so long by this point that he considered his memory unreliable. But he still resided in Markov Manor, the grand estate of his noble house. Abandoned as it was, its location in Stensia and its size meant that it had stayed relatively intact for the past few hundred years. Local folklore kept the wanderers out, talking of curses and demons. There was no need for any sort of protection for the residence of the Lord of the Innistrad, the aura of the manor was enough in Sorin’s eyes.

The isolation of Markov Manor meant that often his ears were filled with the silence that permeated abandoned buildings. Wind, rats, the odd ghoul that had forgotten what he was doing in his afterlife - it was undignified. He didn’t care for silence or noise, but he sometimes cared about music in those rare moments where he felt himself recalling the distant memory of his previous life. Especially now, when winter had settled upon Innistrad once again. When he took to stalking around the plane to check all was in order, he could hear the faint melodies of celebration. Those melodies were so familiar, but so different. There was now more words, more flourishes and more instruments. It seemed more than ever, cheer was needed to keep spirits up. He could here more verses relating to Avacyn and her angels, giving thanks to them and praying for their safe passage into the next year. The tinkling of bells and the shrill flutes accompanied the cacophony of voices and he could remember those melodies from a time past —

Sorin arose swiftly from his high backed chair in his study, the book that was previously doing a bad job of keeping his attention falling onto the stone floor with a dull, soft thud. Did he fall asleep? That seemed unlikely since he had not felt the need to sleep in a few hundred years. Was he reminiscing and the cocoon of memories had lulled him into a near soporific state? That seemed more likely, but he hated reminiscing. He had no desire to remember his past, for he spent far too long of his early immortal life doing that. Memory was a curse, the worst kind of trickery. It was far too unreliable and often subject to revision that it was wholly unreliable.

It was schmaltzy, he told himself as he opened the doors to the ballroom door. The doors creaked on their hinges, a discordant sound echoing through the cavernous space that spoke volumes of their lack of use. He saw that organ and stalked towards it with a purposeful stride, his coat billowing behind him. Dust stirred at his feet as he approached the stately instrument at the very end of the room. It was covered in dust and it had lost most of its lustre in the years that had past, but it was still the same organ he remembered. The pipes towered above him, with carved angelic wings at the very top as an ornamental feature. It was meant to resemble the sigil of Stensia, but he couldn’t help but feel that in the current age, it could be interpreted to be the wings of a certain angelic creation.

Black and white keys were laid in front of him, like a melodious staircase. And below, the pedals to operate the instrument covered in cobwebs yet still showing the signs of wear. How familiar they were, Sorin thought as he ran a finger on the lower rung of keys to dislodge the dust from them. He could almost feel the indents that his younger self had made from hours and hours of practise. The note of C, followed by D - his fingers lingering over each key as his fingers remembered trained formations. He would not play the keys - no, it was not worth hearing their sound at the moment. But his fingers hovered over E, then F and finally G to round the sound. Music was to be joyful to create harmonies that would bring all in celebration together.

The persistence of human memory comes to haunt Sorin again as he remembers one afternoon where he was left to his own devices, his teacher preoccupied with one thing or another in the main hallway. They had begun to learn more sorrowful, more sinister sounding chords. Strictly to convey a broad range of emotion rather than for any actual playing. He had taken to these a lot more, they were a lot more exciting to play. Sorin had stumbled upon a wonderful sounding dissonance of two notes not sitting together quite right. He could feel goosebumps along his skin, the disharmonious sound feeling a lot more pleasant and comfortable to his ears. 

His teacher ran back in, yelling that Sorin had summoned the devil to this house. The sound he was playing was the music of the devil because it sounded so unnatural and so unholy. He didn’t want to summon the devil now, did he? To make sure he remembered, she had made him write down lines as punishiment in his score book.

“Mi contra fa, diabolus est in musica.” said Sorin after a long moment, his fingers hovering over the keys in question. How he was remembering this was beyond him. He had resigned himself to the quagmires of memory whenever he found himself in Innistrad for extended periods of time but being back at Markov Manor in particular made them come back thicker and stronger and more in focus. 

He hated it.

He had no reason to remember any aspect of his mortal life - not when it was so far removed from his current existence. But this once, perhaps this once - he could indulge in some music. Perhaps he would even dare summon the devil with his music.

Sorin had no idea whether the organ would produce any sound. He would try anyway. He sat down at the organ, placed his fingers on the keys and pressed down while operating the pedals with his feet. 

The sound of the chord echoed briefly with a slight dusty wheeze, but before he could play any further, he could feel something in the air had changed. The still countenance of Markov Manor had been disturbed and he felt it right here in the grand ballroom. Sorin stood up and looked to see what was happening. There was a sense of space being warped and his instinct told him that someone was planeswalking straight into his home.

He bared his fangs with a hiss and drew his sword from its scabbard as he turned to see a flash, the smell of brimstone and a pair of horns. There was a cackle and Sorin nearly groaned when he saw who it was. 

“Tibalt.” he said sharply as he took a step forward towards the maddeningly gleeful planeswalker who had smelt like he came from a furnace. “Leave this place now.”

“Leave?” Tibalt stood taller as he dusted the ash from his coat, causing it to fall on the floor. Sorin didn’t like that at all. He would make that devilish planeswalker lick the floor with his own blasted tongue for leaving soot everywhere, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. “But I just arrived - don’t be so quick to deprive me of my fun, oh Lord of Inni- ”

“Silence!” Sorin stalked forward, sword glinting in the dim light in a suitably threatening manner. Tibalt took a wary hop back, scattering more soot everywhere. “You will take your leave voluntarily from here before I force you out myself!“

Tibalt pretended to look hurt as he tucked his hands behind his back, trying not to have too big an expression of glee on his face. His mere presence annoyed Sorin. That was worth its weight in human flesh. He could just leave now and have the whole Blind Eternities between him and Lord Markov if he wanted to, but he loved that expression on his face and would kill to see it again. Quite literally.

“Have you had many visitors lately? I guess not, judging by the state of the cobwebs. But I can imagine the kind of delight you would have had here, bodies filling the room. I prefer them screaming in agony of course, I’m sure you do too— “

“Did I not say leave this place before I ejected you?” Sorin cut Tibalt off before he could go on one of his rambling diatribes. He hated hearing Tibalt talk, because it was all the deranged ramblings of a demented mind. No reason, no contemplation - just arrogance with no substance to follow through on it.

“I’ll go.” replied Tibalt with a half smile. “But I feel like I was summoned here - it would be rude not to stick around.”

“Out!” Sorin yelled with vehemence as he stormed forward, sword aiming straight for Tibalt. “I did not summon you!”  
 Tibalt jumped back with haste, summoning pain magic at his finger tips and shooting them straight at the vampire. It was a slightly futile move. He knew Sorin would be resistant to it but it would be enough to cause a distraction so that he could get away properly. 

The bolts of red hit Sorin and he felt a slight prickling upon his flesh that slowed him down, just enough so that he could see Tibalt escaping into a rift. Sorin hissed in frustration. He felt slow, as if awakening from a haze that descended up on him. There would be a day where he taught Tibalt the lesson he deserved, but it would have to be another day.

As the air once again became still, Sorin kicked the soot on his floor. He did not need any more reminders as to why vestiges of memory were the chains upon his immortal person. Music was nothing more than a distraction and it was better for those who had things to be distracted from.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Innistrad is meant to be like 18th century Germany but I actually failed the section of my IB Music exam that was about common European musical nomenclature. So no BACH or f-moll in this fic. If you want to know what this tritone interval aka the devil’s music sounds like, the song you can hear it the most prominently is Metallica’s Enter Sandman. The intro of the song is basically that flatted fifth. If you want it more creepy and disconcerting sounding, you can hear it on the piano part of David Bowie’s Station to Station.


End file.
